clocks
by koalakoala
Summary: You say thank you; she sweeps your hair off your kitchen floor and says, for what? / Three unlikely moments. Simon/Isabelle, post-COFA. For Project PULL.


_She tied you to a kitchen chair,_ _she broke your throne and she cut your hair, and from your lips she drew the Hallelujah. —Leonard Cohen_

**1.**

You've both been studiously avoiding that moment after you killed Lilith, on a jade-colored chair under a dusty chandelier.

Isabelle just says, "If you make a promise to call me _first_, don't break it."

You feel guilty as you consider her, maybe not because you've done that but because she knows you have.

"Okay," you say. "I don't think I'll ever promise to call you first again, to be honest." Number one on his speed dial isn't her, and she knows it.

Isabelle doesn't really smile, but it's somewhere relatively close. "Okay," she agrees. It's called compromising, and it won't be the last time they do it. "Also," she adds, "You need to talk to me. Tell me before you do stupid things, like run off with a vampire girl whose blood you just happened to drink once."

You wince. She smiles for real.

"Is that all?" you say, because it's a fairly short list and you were expecting maybe fifty conditions. At the very least.

Isabelle hesitates. "And…monogamy?" You're pretty sure it's the first time she has ever seriously suggested it to anyone, and you feel kind of pleased. Saying sorry (again) would probably make things worse, so you just nod. You aren't here for apologies, anyway.

Her fingers feel like a pianist's and a soldier's.

**2.**

"Can you teach me how to cook?" she says to your mother. You stare at her and try not to laugh. But your mother looks happier than she's been in a while as Isabelle ties back her hair and ties on an apron with the neatest bow you've ever seen.

"Simon can even be your taste-tester," your mom says brightly. You blanch, and not just because you're a vampire.

"I was actually thinking of saving this for my brothers," Isabelle says easily, bending over the cookbook. You mouth _thanks_ when she raises her head, and she mouths back, _for what?_

They eventually decide to make lasagna. Your mom sends you to get the tomato sauce, just in case their homemade version doesn't turn out, and Isabelle doesn't seem too offended at the implication. You hold the fat glass jar in your pantry, thinking about how it looks almost but not really like blood and wishing it actually was.

You set the sauce on the counter and try not to look at it as you chop mushrooms and tomatoes, while the strips of pasta boil on the stove. Rebecca helps, even though she'd tossed you a million incredulous looks since Isabelle came over.

She takes you aside, eyebrows halfway up her forehead. "You didn't pay her for this, right?"

You almost grin, but your fangs would most likely show so you don't. Instead you say, "You sound like Clary. Is it really so hard to believe I have a girlfriend?"

Rebecca laughs and doesn't answer, which is kind of insulting, but isn't that what sisters are for?

Three layers. It goes in the oven, timer counting down, and your mother brings out a yellowing deck of cards. It's completely normal and you feel like an outsider, like you're the only one who doesn't belong even though she doesn't either.

Later, Isabelle holds a covered dish full of supposedly-delicious lasagna on your porch, and she beams and says, "I love your mom. Mine never has time to teach me trivial things like how to cook." She's already made plans to come back next week, and you'd forced a joke about your mother replacing you.

"Iz," you say.

She frowns. "Are you okay?" _You don't have to be so masochistic, _you imagine she'd say. You taste it from lips all but shredded by your fangs, and you whisper, "Blood."

Her answer is _I thought so_, and she's so collected you almost forget your empty stomach.

The Sanctuary is quiet, but not peaceful. It might not be _on_ hallowed ground, but it's _close_ and your skin crawls. Rows of glass bottles; you're at least glad it isn't in IV bags or anything. You take one, but she coughs and you grab another because she knows best, usually.

(You would never tell her you're disappointed it isn't human.)

Isabelle sits down across from you and serves herself a piece of lasagna, sun-yellow sheets and mozzarella and homemade sauce, because it did turn out fine after all. You say, "I thought that was for Jace and Alec," but she gives you a look and you drop it.

So she eats Italian and you drink blood, and it might be one of your better dates.

**3.**

"Cut my hair," you say suddenly, and Isabelle looks at you, startled.

"What?"

You swallow. It takes twice as much effort to say it a second time, because it's not just a lightbulb over your head anymore. "Can you cut my bangs?"

You've hid behind them like she hides behind glamours, but you're not normal, bass-playing Simon any more than she's blank Isabelle; you're vampire-Simon with a curse sliced into your head and she's a girl with blessings sliced into hers.

Isabelle fingers the scissors like knives, as you take a seat in the same kitchen where she cooked with your mother. You try not to be anxious as she looks at you critically.

"I've never cut hair before."

Which does _wonders_ to your nervousness, even though you already knew.

_Snip. _It's an irritatingly dramatic sound, and you can't help but wince as the first piece falls. You almost back out, you'll just go to the barber shop around the corner and try to pass off your Mark of Cain as a one-of-a-kind tattoo. She smirks. And when the tiles surrounding your chair are dusted with chocolate-colored hair, she stands back and tilts her head.

"Well?" you say apprehensively, opening your eyes.

Isabelle grins and ruffles your wet hair. "You know what, Simon? I might have to reconsider my career choices."

She sounds like she's telling the truth, but you can't be sure. Clary would have teased you, would have pretended to have done an awful job when it really looked fine. You take the mirror she gives you and you're actually more impressed than you thought you'd be, not that you'd ever tell her that.

You say _thank you; _she sweeps your hair off your kitchen floor and says, _for what?_

(You just shake your head and take the broom from her.)


End file.
